


Teeth and Nails

by LunaDeSangre



Series: The Way You Fall Asleep [10]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Disturbing Themes, Established Relationship, M/M, Possibly Triggering, S3E23: Spartacus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: Kelly wants Matt safe, that's all he wants.But Matt? Matt isn't here. He isn'there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This shouldn't be long, but don't expect regular (or fast) updates. I just need to get it out there so I stop fiddling with every. tiny. detail. and actually write the whole damn thing.

He's in a dark, dark place, and the dark is a living thing, viscous and choking and gluey, like thickening blood, getting everywhere and trying to sink into him, trying to suck him in. He's in a dark, dark place and he can't move through this congealing _thing_ , can't scream, can't breathe, like some kind of insignificant insect in some prehistoric solidifying resin, being fossilized alive. He can't move, and he can't scream, and he can't breathe, and he can't find Matt.

 _He can't find Matt_.

His eyes are opened and he sees blond hair and for a moment he thinks—he _thinks_ , and his heart stops _because_ —

But that's too light and too long to be Matt's, and a delicate female hand, fingernails bloodied and nasty purple imprints around the thin wrist, and he thinks _I hope you scratched their fucking eyeballs out_ and _I hope you gave them hell_ and he's thinking of Katie too and knowing it's useless and too late and not enough and what hope can a girl have against the vicious brutal fury of men like that?

What hope can _anyone_ have, he thinks next, and sees Nesbitt's eyes on Matt, the gun in his hands, the smirk on his face, the cruel leer on that other guy's face and the blood on his knife and the blood on the floor and the girl's bloodied open thighs, and he rolls to retch, automatically, puking his guts out right under his nose, unable to hold himself up and unable to stop, because his eyes burn and his throat burn and his stomach burns and everything is spinning and spinning and spinning and he keeps seeing that smirk and that leer and Matt's terrified face and blood and blood and _blood_.


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes are opened and his face is mashed in vomit and he thinks he's crying blood. His stomach is burning, but he can't feel his head. The world is fuzzy, thick, like through a layer of some congealed something, and there's no sounds except his heartbeat, too loud and too muffled all at once, and for a moment he doesn't remember—

He pushes himself up, on shaking arms, fingers sinking in thickening dark _blood_ , and the dead girl stares back at him.

A strand of blond hair in her face, blue eyes dull.

Dead.

 _Katya_ , Matt had choked, falling to his knees besides her, trembling fingers searching for a pulse even though they'd both known it was useless and too late and not enough, even though there'd been two men and two guns and a knife and blood between her bloodied open thighs and all over the floor.

Dead. She's dead. Already—finally, maybe, if all that blood—

He retches again, but he's got nothing left, and the world lurches but it doesn't spin too badly and he shakily pushes himself up again, fingers sinking in thickening dark blood.

She'd dead and gone. He can't do anything, not for her. She's gone and she can be recovered.

But Matt. He doesn't know where Matt is. He needs to find Matt.

He pushes himself to his knees and his arms shake, and his legs shake, and his whole body shakes, and Matt's bloodied shirt falls from his burning stomach and there's blood falling along with it.

 _Oh_.


	3. Chapter 3

His eyes are opened and it can't have been long because his heart is still loud and muffled all at once and he's still on his knees. He shakily grabs the shirt (Matt's shirt. Where is Matt.) and shakily presses it back and makes some kind of muffled whimpering sound that grates all along his throat because his stomach is burning and bleeding and his head is lurching and he thinks he's crying blood and he doesn't know where Matt is.

 _Airtight, Kelly_ , insists Shay's voice in his head, _it needs to be airtight_.

He remembers a subway and another gun, and the desperate, wry smile of a dying woman who didn't die after all, and her eyes afterwards, kind, as she squeezed his fingers.

 _Airtight_ , he thinks. And he presses harder, teeth sinking into his lips and some broken sound burning his throat, folding over to hold the shirt (Matt's shirt. Where is Matt.) there against his bleeding stomach. He's got tape in his pockets—the left one, left pocket, leather jacket, he's got it on—surgical tape, he's got tape in his pocket for precisely _this_ , for dying women in the subway and dying kids in overturned backhoes in the middle of nowhere, because he's lived and learnt and never wants to see anyone die again.

And he's promised Matt. He's promised Matt, he'd fight with everything he has no matter what, fight with everything he has to get back to him.

So he's got tape in his pocket.

It _hurts_ , pressing down, winding it around his waist and pressing down to stick it, to stick the shirt (Matt's shirt. Where is Matt.) down so it'll be _airtight_.

Can it be airtight with a shirt? A shirt isn't airtight. How can it be airtight with a shirt?

 _You pack it in_ , repeats Shay's voice in his head, _with anything you've got, anything you can find. You need to stop the bleeding, Kelly. It doesn't matter with what, you just need to stop the bleeding._

He needs to stop the bleeding. So he can find Matt.

He looks around, forces himself to look around, forces himself to ignore Katya's dead empty eyes staring at him, to ignore the blood on her thighs and the blood on the floor.

There's a bloody couch cushion. Too big, bloody already, and out of his reach anyway. The kitchen towel hanging on the oven's door. Too far away. No shirts or sweaters off chairs or sofa backs. They're both too damn neat. Towels—in the bathroom, too far away. Clothes in dressers and closets, bedrooms—bedroom, _theirs_ —way too far away. Dirty clothes, bathroom again. Gym bags—with clean clothes and compresses and bandages—bedrooms, _dammit_. Emergency kit, the damn fucking bathroom _again_. Why did he ever think a tiny, puny roll of surgical tape would be enough to carry around?

Still, it's all he has: Matt's shirt and his puny little tape, and it's better than nothing and he's _promised_ and it needs to be airtight. No matter how much it hurts.

He does his best, whimpering, presses more and winds it around himself again, forcing himself to breathe—to gasp for breath through the pain, through his tightly gritted teeth. He pats down, but he has no clue if his makeshift bandage is airtight or not, because there's too much blood to tell, and he _knows_ if it was all his he wouldn't be conscious, but his clothes are so soaked he can't tell if he's still bleeding.

Nevermind. That's all he can do. Help. He needs help. Where's his phone?

Nesbitt's smashed his phone. And Matt's.

And there's no landline.

But he needs help. He needs help so he can find Matt.

He tries to say it, but he can't unclench his teeth and it's just more muffled whimpering. He shakily pushes himself back up, trying to uncurl, trying to fucking _unclench his teeth_ , and tries yelling—

But it makes his head _explode_.

He ends up right back on the floor, fingers and forehead slipping in thickening dark blood, retching absolutely nothing, heaving absolutely nothing, unable to breathe right or—it feels—even at all, gasping and crying and _throbbing_.


	4. Chapter 4

His eyes are opened and his face is mashed in blood. Thick, dark, congealing. Slippery.

He's been here before: for a moment, that's all he knows.

Then he remembers Matt. Screaming, he thinks. His name?

Or maybe just _no_.

And _please_.

_PleasenoKelly_. He remembers that. Blindly. And not blindly: he remembers Nesbitt, and that other guy, and those guns, and _Katya_.

And the fact that Matt's not here, he's not here and Kelly needs to find him.

He's sprawled half-curled on the bloody floor, and he slips and groans and shakes as he pushes himself upright, on trembling knees. The whole room spins around him, irregular and nauseating, and he squeezes his eyes shut and clamps his lips together and tries to take deep breaths through his nose, teeth clenched and fingers clenched and whole body clenched, too hot and too cold and throbbing dully.

He needs to find Matt. He needs to find Matt, and for that he needs to get moving—he needs to—to...

Get something. He needs to get something so he can find Matt.

Get what, he thinks, and he opens his eyes and the spinning isn't too bad this time, and the nausea isn't too bad this time, and he's been hurt before, he thinks, he can ignore that—can ignore that because he needs to get that something so he can find Matt.

He sits back on his knees, shakily, dully. On the right, Katya stares back at him, equally clueless. Get what, Kelly thinks again, through some kind of haze. He follows the blood trail on the floor with his eyes, from her to him, mentally traces the wobbling, crusting outline of the large puddle he's woken up into. Get what. It's dark, dark red—nearly black in parts.

Actually black in parts. One part. Right next to him.

He squints, nearly toppling over on the left and only just catching himself on shaky arms, and closes his fingers on something—on leather?

Leather. But not his—not his, that's Matt's.

That's Matt's jacket.

That's Matt's jacket down on the bloody floor, and that's Matt's phone there on the side,  outside of the puddle—the pieces of Matt's phone there on the side outside of the puddle, next to the pieces of Kelly's phone.

Because they're smashed. Broken. So they couldn't call—couldn't call—

For help.

Help. That's what he needs to find. _Help_. For Matt.

"Help," he mumbles—thinks he mumbles, the sound all dull and throbbing. Muffled, like through a thickening, congealing mist. It feels weird in his mouth: there and not there, painful but disconnected somehow. On some level, something nags at him that this is important—

But not as much as finding Matt. Finding help. For Matt.

" _Help_ ," he tries saying again, but it's all _wrong_ : it vibrates and hurts and doesn't even feel like a sound. Or like anything he's ever felt before—even though it doesn't really feel like he can feel, right now.

It doesn't matter—none of any of this matters: he needs to find Matt. He needs help for Matt.

He looks around, and everything is spinning a little still, and he feels _weird_ , but he can ignore that—ignore that to find Matt and find help. For Matt.

There's no phones, he thinks—forces himself to think, fuzzily, dully. If there's no phones...

Ingrained reflexes slowly trickling in, he finds himself squinting in the direction of the front door, nearly managing to focus on its dark blurry form: if there's no phones, then he needs to get out of the apartment. Find someone. Help. For Matt.

He's on his knees, and he needs to get out—get through that door, and he can ignore everything to get through that door and find Matt and help for Matt.

He can ignore everything, for Matt, and he ignores his own shaking and trembling and groaning and slipping and he clenches his fingers and clenches his teeth and takes deep breaths through his nose and gets _up_.

And the world just... _slams sideways_.


End file.
